


Pick Me up from Where I Lay

by unofficialsherlockian



Series: Genesis [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood, Drug Use, Gen, Smoking, Violence, cases, drug overdose, referenced self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unofficialsherlockian/pseuds/unofficialsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've known him for five years and no I don't [know him better]."<br/>Sherlock and Lestrade's relationship pre A Study In Pink</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nicotine, Cigarettes, and Crime Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from Sherlock and Lestrade's early stages of their partnership.

The room was fine. Specifically the rent. Decent. Affordable. But the landlord was only tolerating him, and there definitely wasn't enough for his experiments.

Sherlock sighed, lying on his bed, looking up at the ceiling. It would do until he could get settled into London, into his line of work—into himself.

He'd done well in America. But acting wasn't what Sherlock had wanted to do, however natural he was at it. He'd had his fun. And a bit of seriousness as well, but in the end, he figured that Mrs. Hudson insisting on owing him a favour might not turn out to be such a bad thing. Maybe someday Sherlock would take her up on it.

Maybe someday he'd be out of the tiny cramped flat in Montague Street.

His finger twitched slightly and he turned his face away from them, almost angry at himself. He was bored. Again. Hundreds of milliseconds and seconds spent staring into the street from his window, gazing longingly at the acids on the table—thinking, always THINKING—he was bored. And the problem was he was desperate. Sherlock knew that pouring some sort of expensive acid on himself and using 'experiment' as the excuse was definitely not worth it. He also knew that the state of his finances left barely enough money for what little food he consumed, let alone anything recreational, distracting, and not so safe. His last resort was always a last resort now, to be saved for emergencies—when he felt he would die if he could not do something about it. As bored as Sherlock was, he wasn't idiotic enough to waste what he had. But it was driving out of his mind.

Sherlock stared at the computer screen for a while and had almost given up when it made the sound signaling an email.

It hadn't been to long since he had sent the email, but for Sherlock, seconds had been years. He jumped off his bed and vaulted over it, crouching over the laptop on the corner of the table and reading. This inspector was to be Sherlock's final try. Sherlock's eyes flicked over the message, and his eyes lit up.

_Who the hell are you? How did you hear about the case?_

_…And how on earth did you solve it…my men hadn't let anyone near…_

_Who are you?_

It had worked. Sherlock grinned happily, straightening up and clapping his hands together. His thoughts of drugs were nothing more than the quiet whispers of suggestion that were always lingering somewhere in the back of his mind; all but forgotten. He was going to have fun with this Inspector Lestrade.

 

Two Months Later

'If you've got a problem with my sergeant,' Lestrade said sharply, 'you can always go to one of the other inspectors.'

Sherlock huffed. 'I did tell you. No other inspector would listen to me.'

Lestrade sighed. 'Idiot that I am,' he muttered. 'So, what've you got?'

'Victim in his forties. Unemployed. Married, though, and some degree of respect for himself although he is an alcoholic. I'll say his fortunes have been decline for several years, though and he probably can't see a way to pick himself out of it.'

'God's sake Sherlock!' Lestrade stared at him, unbelieving. 'I swear you just make this all up!'

Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing as he cut Lestrade off. 'Will anyone just look?'

'That's not explaining how you do it,' Lestrade said. 'Why don't you show me how you do it instead of going on about it.'

There was a small grin on Sherlock's face. 'Well then, Inspector.' He gathered himself for a moment and then began speaking, at first regularly, and then faster as he went on. 'All we have is the man. You can just by looking at him that he's in his forties-slightly greying hair, bit of a lined face. What can we see from his clothes? They're old, worn out clothing. Not the sort you'd wear to a nice job and there's no indication that he does any dirty work—grass stains for a landscaper or brick dust or cement…anything to indicate a job that is out of the office. Could work from home, but then there's the fact that his clothes are three years old at least. Probably doesn't have the money to buy new ones. His face is clean-shaven, hair neatly trimmed, so he's at least got some self-respect. He's got a wedding ring, and the fact that he's out of the house still looking neat infers he's married. I could smell the alcohol, so he's been trying to drink to distract him from his troubles--obviously not helping his financial state.'

Lestrade shook his head. 'Why haven't you joined the Yard? We could use about ten or more of you …'

Sherlock smiled a little. 'Someone's gotta do the paperwork for me.'

'Right. Keep that to yourself, Sherlock, we're not incompetent over here.'

'Whatever gave you that idea?' Sherlock muttered.

 

'Ten minutes. That's all I can give you.'

Sherlock snorted. 'That's all I really ever need.' He sighed, ducking under the crime scene tape. 'And nothing's been touched?'

Lestrade shook his head. 'No. Never is, is it?' He sighed. 'And no, Donovan isn't here today.'

'It's an improvement,' Sherlock commented. Lestrade snorted quietly.

'You haven't got your jacket today,' Lestrade pointed out as Sherlock bent over the man's body with a magnifying lens. Lestrade motioned for his men to clear out. He was used to seeing Sherlock in the jacket, even as the man sometimes wore jeans.

'Hmm?' Sherlock was preoccupied surveying the man's fingertips. 'Oh. Cleaners. I was…doing something on my own last night. Got more than a bit dirty.' He rolled up his sleeves as he continued studying the rest of the body. 'Bit warm anyways,' Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade then noticed the needle marks and scars and track lines as Sherlock bent differently, attempting to see some detail.

He'd been concerned before today, of course. When there'd been long gaps between cases where Sherlock was called in, the day after the one time Sherlock had failed, Lestrade had brought the younger man in, pretending to want his statement, but really wanting to check on him…something funny with his eyes, his pupils. Lestrade wasn't blind. And he was worried about any kind of use Sherlock might have for narcotics.

But he waited until they'd left the scene for forensics to take over before pulling Sherlock aside.

'I need to go,' Sherlock said sternly.

'No. This is important.' Lestrade looked Sherlock in the eyes. 'The drugs-how long?'

Sherlock exhaled through his nose, looking away briefly. 'Track marks? Or the scars from the needle?'

'Both.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Need to remember not to roll up my sleeves that far….'

Lestrade kept his gaze on Sherlock's face. 'Sherlock, how long?'

Finally Sherlock looked away and down. 'Awhile now.' Then he looked fiercely at Lestrade. 'Are you gonna arrest me now, Inspector? Search my flat?'

'You know I'm not gonna do that.' Sherlock held his gaze and Lestrade sighed as they both looked away. 'Sherlock…you…you can't keep doing this.'

'Or what?' Sherlock challenged.

Lestrade sighed. 'Sherlock.'

'I'm not high now, Inspector.'

'No.' Lestrade looked at him. 'But what were you last night?'

Sherlock looked into Lestrade's eyes. 'Bored.'

 

'Do you know a Mycroft Holmes?'

Sherlock glared at Lestrade. 'I thought you phoned about a case.'

'Well, yeah. But last night I was called away to an empty restaurant. Man named Mycroft Holmes introduced himself to me as your brother.' Lestrade looked at Sherlock. 'Is he?'

'Oh, hell,' Sherlock groaned, sitting back in his chair. 'What did he offer you to spy on me?'

'So he is your brother then?' Lestrade grinned at Sherlock's scowl. 'I can nearly see the resemblance—Alright!' He smirked for a bit at Sherlock's apparent distaste. 'He offered a rise to chief inspector in a year.'

'And did you take it?' Sherlock asked calmly.

'No. I'm gonna to "spy" on you, and I'm not gonna take a bribe. Besides, I'd get there just as quick, or at least better learning from you.'

Sherlock blinked. 'Really?' He sounded disbelieving.

Lestrade looked away. 'So anyways, another inspector's been stuck on a case for ages...'

 

Lestrade's face was concerned as he looked at the wound. 'I'm calling an ambulance.'

Sherlock shook his head firmly. 'No.'

Donovan sighed from behind Lestrade. 'Just let the freak bleed out. It's what he wants.' She rolled her eyes and then muttered, barely audible, 'What we all want.'

Lestrade saw Sherlock's eyes tighten, but he didn't know if it was from pain, or from Donovan's statement. 'Donovan—' he said in a warning voice.

She raised her hands and walked away.

'Seriously, though. We need to get you to a hospital. Stop the bleeding.' Lestrade reached for Sherlock's arm and Sherlock flinched away quickly. 'Sorry…' He looked at Sherlock with concern.

'I've had worse, Inspector.' Sherlock winced at he stood, and pulled off his scarf, trying to left-handedly tie it around his wounded right shoulder. He'd hated the scarf anyways. If he ever got enough money, he'd buy a long coat and a better one.

'Look, at least let me take you home…' Lestrade sighed as Sherlock looked at him. 'Make sure you're alright….'

Sherlock sighed, wincing as he finished tying off his wounded shoulder. 'Alright…'

Lestrade drove them to Montague street and then followed Sherlock up the stairs to the man's flat. Sherlock's hands were shaking slightly as he fished out his key and tried to get it in the door-Lestrade almost offered to help, but knew better than to.

'Sorry…bit of a mess,' Sherlock muttered, and then opened the door.

It was a mess. Books and chemistry equipment everywhere. A cloth stained with what looked like blood, several piles of ash-they all looked the same to Lestrade, but were clearly separated…knives and scissors scattered about, papers, a laptop thrown to the side…The flat interested Lestrade. It was like seeing Sherlock's head. No photos, he noticed suddenly. The young man, he knew, wasn't close to his sibling, but there wasn't anyone?

Sherlock rushed over to grab something on the table and throw it in the desk draw, quickly, before Lestrade could see what it was. Then he turned back to the Inspector.

'Erm…can I get you anything?' he offered awkwardly, looking as if he didn't know what to do with someone in the flat.

Lestrade looked at him grimly, wondering if the man had …anyone. And he doubted that he'd ever know. 'No,' he said sternly. 'But what you can do is either let me look at that or look at it yourself, but either way, I'm not leaving until I'm sure you're not bleeding out.'

Sherlock sighed. 'Hell…' he muttered. 'Fine. Hang on.'

He went into a cupboard above the sink and came back with bandages and a few things to stitch the wound with.

'That bad, eh?' Lestrade asked, then he paused, alarmed. 'Hang on—antiseptic!'

Sherlock looked up, in the process of unbuttoning his shirt. 'What abut it?'

'You need it, or you're gonna get infected.' Lestrade walked into the kitchen. 'Where?'

'Erm...I think to the left of the sink…' Sherlock said.

Lestrade came back with the bottle of peroxide. 'Christ, I don't know how you've survived this long…'

'Quite well, thank you,' Sherlock said dryly. Sherlock winced as he pulled off his shirt. His arms were scarred, and there were trace scars on his chest. Then he sat down on the raggedy couch and shrugged at Lestrade. 'You…you can sit, if you want…'

Lestrade sat on Sherlock's right, on the opposite end of the couch, aware of Sherlock being uncomfortable with close proximity. 

'This is because of Mycroft, isn't it?' Sherlock asked after a while, starting to stitch up the wound. It had been messy, but not deep enough for Lestrade to insist on taking the young man to a hospital.

'Sorry, what?' Lestrade asked, looking confused.

'This—you making sure I'm "okay".' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'You're probably checking to see if I'm alive and well and not on drugs, and then report right to Mycroft.'

'Sherlock, I told you I'm not spying on you for whatever your brother offers me. There are other reasons why I would want to make sure you're not dying!'

'Yeah, really?' Sherlock looked at him. 'Like what?'

Lestrade stood. 'Forget it.' He gave a quiet noise of exasperation. Sociopath as the man insisted was looking better and better. 'If you're done, I'm leaving. And if you touch that bloody needle, you are not getting on a case anytime soon.'

The inspector left quickly, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock turned his head away and sighed.

 

Sherlock lit a cigarette quietly as he watched the body being taken away. Lestrade stood silently next to him.

'So, nothing yet.' Lestrade sighed 'I'm starving. You?'

Sherlock shook his head, taking a long draw from his cigarette before speaking. 'I never eat while working; digestion slows me down.' His eyes flicked around as he exhaled smoke. 'I suppose I could do with a coffee, though.'

 

At the café, Lestrade ordered a large breakfast, while Sherlock kept to his word and only ordered a coffee.

'Is that what you're living on these days?' Sherlock asked, as they waited for his food to arrive. Sherlock looked at him, jerking himself out of thought. 'Coffee and cigarettes?'

'Keeps me going,' Sherlock muttered, sipping his coffee. He shrugged.

'Seriously, Sherlock, you're looking thinner everyday.' Not to mention less healthy, Lestrade added mentally.

'Brain's what counts,' Sherlock said quietly. He sighed. 'Besides, my money's better spent on other things.'

'What, things you poison yourself with?' Lestrade looked at him.

Sherlock sighed heavily. 'I'm not trying to poison myself, Lestrade. I'm trying to keep distracted.'

Lestrade shook his head. 'You need to eat something. I'm getting you breakfast as soon as the girl comes back.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I'm fine. He drank more of his coffee. 'Just thinking about the case.'

The waitress brought Lestrade's breakfast, and asked if Sherlock still didn't want something.

'No, thank you. More coffee, though.'

It was silent for a long time as Lestrade ate and Sherlock remained deep in thought. Lestrade watched the young man for a while, thinking about how gaunt he was looking, the dark circles under his eyes, the need for coffee and cigarettes…Lestrade's eyes drifted to Sherlock's arm, covered by his sleeve, where he had seen the needle marks.

'Listen…' Lestrade said quietly, laying down his fork. 'Are you…?' 

Sherlock looked across the table at him and frowned. 'What?'

Lestrade looked at him for a while and then looked away. 'Nothing, never mind.'

They were silent for a while until Sherlock sprang from his chair, having thought of something, and hurried out after paying, Lestrade hurrying to follow.


	2. Pure Brutality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Headless corpse."  
> Sherlock and Lestrade investigate an abnormal crime.

'Dammit.' Lestrade was ready to kill this kid. Between his drug habits and the way he knew everything about everyone, and now not picking up his mobile...

'If he's drugged off his ass when I get there...'

Lestrade knocked on the door to Sherlock's flat. Then again more loudly.

It opened quickly and Lestrade met eyes with the young man. Sherlock glanced him up and down. 'This is either a checking up on me or a case,' he said, turning. Lestrade walked past him. 'Better come up.'

'Where's your mobile?' Lestrade called after Sherlock as the young man started up the stairs, the DI following slightly behind. 

'Not sure. Did you phone?' Sherlock asked innocently. He opened the door to the room, and gestured Lestrade to the couch.

Lestrade moved a cardboard box and sat down, only to spring up again as Sherlock sat down with his needle in his hand. Lestrade grabbed his wrist forcefully. 'Don't you dare bloody use that thing while I'm sitting right here!' he shouted. Lestrade grabbed the needle from Sherlock's hand and flung it across the desk.

Sherlock looked up and met Lestrade's eyes and Lestrade suddenly felt awful for the kid; he looked so miserable for half a second. But then a bored and slightly sardonic look was upon the young man's face and Lestrade was sitting on the couch, watching Sherlock shift in his chair.

'I wasn't going to use it,' Sherlock said. He sighed. 'Maybe before you got here-'

'Sherlock!'

'-But that's besides the point.' Sherlock flicked an unconvincing smile at Lestrade. 'You're here now, what for?'

Lestrade sighed and settled back on the beaten couch. 'I'm not checking up on you; there's a case if you're interested. Come to the station and we'll give you the details. We're a bit stumped, as it were.'

Sherlock grinned, more honestly this time. 'Aren't you always when you come to me for help?'

 

Lestrade hadn't known Sherlock long, but the first time they'd met in person had been enough to convince Lestrade that he honestly did need the kid. Perhaps Lestrade saw a bit of himself in him as well-a more self-destructive, excitement junkie version, but nevertheless. They both had an appetite for nicotine and coffee, and both wouldn't rest until a case was solved. Maybe for different reasons, but Lestrade believed deep down that there was a part of Sherlock that cared for more than just the puzzle. Or maybe he was deluding himself so he could overlook the young man's many flaws.

'So, what's happened this time?' Sherlock didn't sound bored, that was a relief, though he was staring out the window of Lestrade's passenger seat, seemingly uninterested.

Lestrade knew that Sherlock preferred casework over cocaine any day, but he had just taken the young man away from his drugs, so he supposed that would be the cause of the sulking. He decided he needed to give Sherlock the possibility of the high the young man only got from working on difficult cases.

'Headless stiff,' Lestrade said. 

'If you're not gonna give details, what's the point?' But Lestrade noticed Sherlock perk up and withdraw his gaze from the window. The detective smiled.

'It's as I said, though. Headless corpse. We're not exactly sure what to make of it, considering that level of brutality of a crime isn't that common.' 

Sherlock hummed quietly. Lestrade could tell he was warming up to this case. Lestrade sometimes thought that if he fed this young man a steady diet of cases, he'd be less inclined to inject himself full of all that crap. Maybe it was too much to hope for, but Lestrade had alot of hopes for this young man. 

 

They arrived at the crime scene, blocked off by yellow tape, and Sherlock stepped out of the car with reserved movements, his eyes darting, seeing everything. Lestrade didn't know him too well, but well enough to stay quiet until Sherlock asked questions.

After walking a bit Sherlock bent over the body. 'So why here?' he muttered.

'Sorry?'

Sherlock didn't look away from the limp and bloody form. 'Nice clean big office. Why'd they do it here? Not in some alley that'd take her ages to be found instead of the morning cleaning staff.'

Lestrade shrugged. 'She was really well to do in this law firm-hence this big office. Maybe it was a ...jealous colleague?'

Sherlock looked up, piercing him with those brilliant eyes. 'Would you decapitate someone over a job?'

'You know me, I wouldn't even let your bloody brother ease my way up the career ladder.' Lestrade thought for a moment. 'No, though...they'd have to be pretty upset to have committed this level of violence over a job.'

Sherlock nodded and straightened up a bit, still glancing over the body. 'Victim owned this office then. But it most likely had nothing to do with her murder.' He looked at Lestrade, not seeing him. 'Angry killer prompts reckless actions. Odds are, this was done without much thought. Right handed person, more than likely male-requires a certain level of strength and anger to do this to someone, but still dangerous to assume without evidence...' 

'She was married,' Lestrade was looking through her desk. 'Should interview the husband...Sally can round up the coworkers.'

'Why don't you let Sally take the husband, and you can talk with her coworkers. I'll watch.' 

Lestrade rubbed his brow. 'It would be so much easier if you two would be able to work on a bloody case together...'

'Yes,' Sherlock's voice was low, his eyes piercing. 'But clearly we can't, so it would be much easier for me to observe you and those you interrogate.' He looked around. 'As this is her place of business, I'd rather talk to it's employees who knew her first, just to see if we can rule anyone out before we find out what the husband had to say.'

'Fine...' Lestrade sighed. 'Can't say I ever thought I'd be standing around a person with their head cut clean off from their body.'

Sherlock hummed quietly as they walked outside. 'In old days, when they didn't use fingerprints or DNA tests, killers would remove heads from the body and hide them so no one could identify who they'd killed and have smaller chance of finding who the murderer was. Of course, that wouldn't work in small towns where everyone knew everyone else intimately.' His nose wrinkled.

'Bloody walking wikipedia of crime, you are,' Lestrade said under his breath.

'Imagine what I could do if I could get away with making up as much knowledge as that stupid site does.' Sherlock gave a slight smile.


	3. Wounded and Capture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The man was bleeding heavily from his right shoulder, which dripped down the arm he was cradling, and onto a couple newspapers, stacked so they would catch the blood and not stain Lestrade's clean floor._

Lestrade didn't like working late. He'd done it quite a bit when he and his wife were at the worst of their fighting, just because he hated going home when she might have another man in bed. She was moved out for the time being, sleeping with some government worker-or at least that's what Lestrade had last heard. He'd still kept the house, kept it clean-cleaner than he could the rest of his life, and kept work out of it, including Sherlock Holmes.

That was until tonight.

It was two am and Lestrade was ready for a cup of tea, a hot shower, and then a few hours of sleep. He should have known that nothing would be that simple-it hadn't been in the past few months since he'd met the strange, raven-haired young man.

So he'd stepped through his door, turned on the light in the kitchen and jumped when he saw Sherlock Holmes sitting at his table. The man was bleeding heavily from his right shoulder, which dripped down the arm he was cradling, and onto a couple newspapers, stacked so they would catch the blood and not stain Lestrade's clean floor. Lestrade marveled at the fact that Sherlock would've been able to figure out that Lestrade kept the house in order. And that Sherlock probably thought the floor being bloody would cause Lestrade more distress than Sherlock injured.

'How the hell did you find out where I live?' Lestrade asked, stepping closer to Sherlock and trying to see how badly he was injured.

Sherlock shrugged, gasping in pain as he did so and then trying to rearrange his face into sarcasm rather than pain. 'It wasn't that hard.'

'Okay, how come you came here instead of a hospital?' He sat in a chair next to Sherlock and cautiously started pulling the man's shredded shirt from the wound. 'How many times, Sherlock, have I told you not to go off on your own? What if you'd been killed?'

'I think that was the intention,' Sherlock murmured, flinching as Lestrade's fingers brushed the edges of the cut. 'But seeing as he made a rather large incision on my upper arm and shoulder instead of taking off my head, I think you should be a bit kinder.' 

'So you went after a man who has decapitated two people, on your own.' Lestrade sighed, standing to find the gauze, bandages and antiseptic. Luckily, he'd been prepared for this day. Sherlock cared far too little for his own well-being for Lestrade to not have first aid supplies stashed everywhere. 'Do you know how much blood you've lost?'

'A considerable amount,' Sherlock said tightly. He eyed the antiseptic wearily as Lestrade poured some on a clean towel. 'You might as well leave it; I'm sure it's gotten some form of infection already-OW!' He pulled away violently as Lestrade put the towel on his shoulder.

'Come on.' Sherlock stiffened as Lestrade put the towel to the wound but didn't cry out again. 

By the time Lestrade had more or less stopped the bleeding and bandaged the wound, Sherlock's face was deathly pale and he looked ready to faint where he sat. 

'You're staying here tonight so I can be sure you don't go out an die somewhere.'

Sherlock frowned but didn't protest. 'I'll sleep on the sofa then.'Lestrade nodded and as Sherlock stood and swayed on his feet, moved to help the younger man.

As he laid down, Sherlock looked at Lestrade. 'I caught him in the middle of a murder,' Sherlock said softly, and there was a slight tremour to his voice.

'Jesus,' Lestrade muttered. 'Do you know who the victim was, or the killer?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Happened too fast. Just thought I'd tell you...m' blood's all over the crime scene...' Sherlock blinked slightly as he slurred his words. 'I saw him...I didn't kill him...'

'Alright...alright.' Lestrade put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder gently. 'Get some rest, alright? We'll go check it out tomorrow, unless you've got a fever.'

'mm....'

When Lestrade awoke the next morning, he wasn't surprised that Sherlock wasn't on his sofa anymore, but was still alarmed-he didn't want Sherlock going anywhere with his arm as injured as it was. Lestrade sighed, and started making himself a pot of coffee. Then the back door slammed and Sherlock wandered into the kitchen slowly.

'Smoking,' Sherlock answered to Lestrade's look.

'Ah.' Lestrade eyed Sherlock. 'How's the arm?'

'Better.' Sherlock looked away, grimacing. 'Slight fever, before you ask to check. I am fine.'

Lestrade sighed. 'Alright, as long as you're not collapsing at what could have been your own crime scene.'

Sherlock smirked.

 

'Where's Lestrade?'

Sally shrugged looking worried. 'He said he'd be back before you got here, so we could go to arrest Hanson.' she looked around the office. 'That was a half hour ago and he hasn't turned up.'

Sherlock swore. If Hanson had known that the police were on his trail, he might have gotten away or gone after the detective. Without a word, he turned from Sally and started walking swiftly out.

'Hey!' She jogged after him. 'Freak, what are you doing?'

'Nothing that'll interest you,' Sherlock called over his shoulder before the door closed behind him.

He got a cab as soon as he stepped onto the street and directed the driver as best as he could to where he'd figured out Hanson's hideout was. It hadn't been difficult after the last body-there was only a small radius of buildings where the man could hide-he wouldn't have been able to get very far with Sherlock's blood staining him.

Sherlock didn't want to let himself be nervous and afraid even though Lestrade was in probably lethal danger right now. He exited the cab and paid the driver, then began jogging down the pavement to the building. Basement he thought. If they weren't there, he'd have to careful.

But they were.

'Oh great...' Sherlock said under his breath, trying to calculate the best way to approach the situation. Lestrade was tied to a chair, a wound on his head-presumably he'd been knocked out to get there-and before him stood Hanson, cradling an axe in his hands.

As Sherlock drew nearer, crouching behind a beam supporting the ceiling, Hanson suddenly stood up straighter and Sherlock saw Lestrade panic. 

He didn't even spare a thought to the rational behind his actions as he sprung at Hanson before he could swing the ax.

'Sherlock!' Lestrade shouted, fighting against his ropes as Sherlock and Lestrade's would-be killer fell to the ground, rolling, the ax coming dangerously close to Sherlock's stomach.

'Ah it's the detective!' Hanson laughed, pinning Sherlock and holding the handle of the ax to Sherlock's throat. He squirmed, but Hanson brought a fist to Sherlock's wounded shoulder and Sherlock yelped, jerking beneath Hanson's strong arms. Lestrade pulled harder against his bonds. 'No so bloody clever are you now?' Hanson's voice was furious and black spots were forming in Sherlock's eyes.

He thought about how stupid it would be to be choked to death by an ax instead of beheaded by one.

Lestrade finally loosened the ropes enough to throw himself at Hanson, landing hard on his right shoulder against the murder's side. Hanson grunted, falling to the side, his grip on the ax loosening. Sherlock rolled to his his side, coughing violently.

'Get up, come on Sherlock!' Lestrade called, watching Hanson stand.

Sherlock gave another cough, struggling to his feet before throwing himself into Hanson and driving the killer back into the wall. Hanson growled, but Sherlock grabbed the ax and with a sudden effort, wrenched it from the man's hands and swung the wooden handle to Hanson's head. The killer dropped heavily to the ground. 

The ax fell from Sherlock's hands and he coughed again, breathing heavily before kneeling next to Lestrade and getting the ropes off the man.

'Thanks,' Lestrade said. Sherlock nodded, rubbing his neck. 'You alright?'

'Yes, fine,' Sherlock said, his voice dying out on him and he tried to clear his throat. Lestrade gave a half smile. 

'Better let Donovan know we got him. Do you mind hanging around for a bit?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'Great.'

 

The next day, Lestrade brought Sherlock to his office to go over the rest of the case with him. 

'Well, now that we've both almost died in one case,' Lestrade said grimly. Sherlock smiled. 'Come on,' Lestrade said, grabbing his coat.

'What?' Sherlock watched the inspector shrug into his coat and then look at him.

'I'm getting dinner. I am also buying you dinner, and you're going to eat it.'

'No need,' Sherlock said. 'Case is over, I could use the food. And you won't need to feel obligated to buy it.'

'You saved my life today you stupid sod,' Lestrade said seriously. And Sherlock finally nodded.


	4. Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'The drugs...take them...please.'

Lestrade was glad he was able to drag Sherlock out of the young man's dingy flat so often for cases and even occasionally for food. He still hadn't figured out what he was to the young man, or what the young man was to him-sometimes he saw him as nearly something akin to a son. At least the part where he needed constant looking after and making sure he was fed and slept normally. But sometimes Lestrade saw him as just a young junkie, someone who needed the constant stimulation or else the young man might end up killing himself someday.

And he cared for the young man, whatever their relationship, so Lestrade hoped to god he would never see that day. 

 

'So what is it?' Lestrade had found the man just waking up in the morning. Sherlock had persuaded Lestrade to take him on the case instead of letting him sleep more. As it was, Sherlock was still squinting at the daylight as he spoke.

'Apparent suicide.' It registered that Sherlock stiffened slightly, but the detective passed it off as nothing. 'Well, you'll see for yourself.'

'Will I really?' Sherlock said sarcastically.

Lestrade sighed before opening the door to the flat. His team had cleared out for the moment; he'd phoned Sally that he was coming up with Sherlock and they needed the area open.

The flat was neat and tidy. Everything looked as if nothing was out of place-it could have just been left that way for the day and the owner could have come through the floor at any moment. Save for the fact that he was hanging by his neck from the ceiling fan.

'No note,' Lestrade commented. 

'Sometimes there aren't notes,' Sherlock said roughly. He was pacing the room almost frantically, his hands stuck firmly in his pockets. 'I don't think you need me on this one, Lestrade. There's no evidence of anyone else having been here. Unless your team eventually finds something, I'll be elsewhere.'

He abruptly finished talking and walked quickly to the door, leaving Lestrade standing in the room puzzled. Then he set off after Sherlock quickly, finding the young man outside. 'Alright?' he asked. Sherlock was looking paler than normal.

'Why wouldn't I be?' Sherlock said cooly. 'People are supposed to be sensitized to this sort of thing if they work in crime, right?' He let out a small, dark chuckle and lit a cigarette with trembling long fingers.

'No one's supposed to be sensitized to this I think,' Lestrade said quietly. 'Look, I'll call you after I've done here, alright? We can get something to eat-make sure you're properly fed for the day.'

'No need. I'm fine.' Sherlock waved down a cab.

'Still, I could use the company,' Lestrade called after him. Sherlock didn't even turn.

 

'Your landlord said you hadn't gone out, come on, open this bloody door or I'm coming in.'

He waited another thirty seconds before using the spare key from the landlord muttering, 'I swear to god if you've got that damn needle-' And his heart skipped a beat when he saw Sherlock laying on the floor, a needle a few inches from his hand. The man was flat on his back, convulsing, eyes rolled back and clearly choking on his own vomit. 

'Shit, shit Shit..Sherlock!' Lestrade didn't even give a thought to running over to the young man and carefully turning him on his side. Sherlock vomited and retched all over the floor, convulsing in Lestrade's arms as he choked. 'It's gonna be okay, Sherlock…' Lestrade closed his eyes, his hand rubbing Sherlock's back gently, wondering how the hell he'd let it get this far. 

Sherlock threw up a final time and then fell slack in Lestrade's arms, breathing heavily, his eyes slightly glazed. 

'What were you thinking Sherlock?' Lestrade muttered, his hand still on the younger man's back, the other one firmly clamped over Sherlock's wrist, constantly aware of the pulse beneath his finger tips that seemed so much more important now.

He sat there for what felt like hours with the young man, listening to his breathing regulate, feeling the increased heart rate start to finally slow down. Lestrade wondered if how disturbed Sherlock had seemed at the scene of the suicide had anything to do with this, or if his drug habit had finally gotten out of control or-the thought Lestrade definitely didn't want-if the overdose had been intentional.

Sherlock's eyes slowly regained some focus and blinked to Lestrade's face and then looked away. He rolled onto his stomach and with trembling limbs, raised himself to his knees. His eyes were wide and he looked lost.

'You're coming home with me tonight, alright?' Lestrade sighed standing and helping Sherlock up. 'I just want to keep an eye on you, alright?'

Sherlock nodded, not meeting Lestrade's eyes, his own grey irises fixed on the puddle of his sick on the floor. 

Lestrade helped him down the stairs and into his car and began driving home, Sherlock remaining silent the entire time. It worried Lestrade-Sherlock always had something to say.

'You okay?' he asked while unlocking his door once they'd gotten there. Sherlock shook his head and walked past Lestrade. Lestrade sighed. Not good.

He handed Sherlock a glass of water from the kitchen and the young man stood awkwardly on his tile floor, holding it. Lestrade didn't like how pathetic and alone Sherlock looked. 'Come on,' Lestrade gestured for Sherlock to follow and was relieved when the young man did. He handed Sherlock a towel from the closet and pointed to the bathroom. 'Have a shower, clean yourself up.' Sherlock nodded again mutely and walked in. 'You can leave your clothes outside the door,' Lestrade shouted through the door. 'I'll try to get them clean.'

After he'd started the wash, Lestrade leaned back against his kitchen counted, surprised at how calm he still felt. What if he hadn't gone in Sherlock's flat in time, and had found a dead body? Lestrade shuddered, the image of Sherlock dying alone on his own floor burned in his mind. Why did such a smart kid have to be such an idiot?

Lestrade looked up to see Sherlock walking towards him, towel wrapped around his waist, his arm folded as if trying to cover himself up. Lestrade swallowed at the already numerous scars on the man's body, purposefully not looking at his left arm where he injected this time. 

Sherlock looked at him with sad tired eyes and Lestrade swallowed, hating this. 'My bedroom's right next to the bathroom; you'll sleep there tonight, alright? There's some clothes in the bottom drawer that'll fit you well enough.' Sherlock nodded slowly, looking pained. 'Are you hungry?'

Sherlock shook his head. 

'At least have more water, you probably need more fluids in you...' A nod. 'Tired?' Hesitation and then a curt nod. 'Alright. Let me know if you need anything.' And he watched Sherlock walked away to his bedroom. 'Fuck this isn't happening,' Lestrade muttered quietly. 'Shit…' 

He didn't think he could deal with this anymore-the kid was going to get himself killed, and however angry Lestrade pretended he was at him, he knew if it happened, it would destroy him.

Sighing, he made up a bed for himself on the sofa and lay awake for a few more hours, horrified at what the day had been.

 

 

Lestrade awoke later and went to check on Sherlock, swearing profusely when he wasn't there. He grabbed his coat quickly, praying that he'd be able to find the kid.

He was frantic by the time he pulled back in his driveway. He'd found Sherlock's flat torn apart, windows broken and some blood on the table, and the drugs completely missing. 'Please don't be dead,' he muttered, praying with every fibre of his being that he'd be able to find Sherlock soon, alive and well. 'Please.'

He stepped through the door and dropped his phone, hearing it crack as it hit the floor.

Sherlock was seated at his kitchen table, clutching his right arm in his left hand. Sherlock looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, and trembling all over. His hand that he was cradling looked broken and there was a bleeding wound across the back of his lower arm. Next to him on the table was his supply of drugs and two syringes.

'I went back to…' Sherlock's voice sounded horse and broken. 'I wanted to…overdose …kill...'Sherlock's voice broke and the unspoken "myself" hung heavily in the air, scaring Lestrade. 'I couldn't do it, I couldn't use again, I can't….' tears rolled over the sharp cheekbones.

'Fuck, Sherlock…' Lestrade closed his eyes briefly before walking over to the younger man. 

'The drugs….take them…please. I…I can't…' Sherlock closed his eyes. 

'Okay, alright,' Lestrade said gently, leaning over to take the drugs and needles from beside Sherlock. 'I'll get rid of these in a bit, we need to look at that,' he said, pointing to Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock nodded, standing slowly and letting out a quiet sob that Lestrade pretended to have not heard as he crossed to the sink. Lestrade gently took his by his upper right arm to steady him, and then took Sherlock's left arm in his right hand. 'What did you do?' Lestrade whispered, shaking his head as he turned on the tap, making sure it was warm before wetting a rag to clean the wound with.

'Broke nearly everything, including my hand, wasn't enough, found one of the knives….' He let out a quiet hiss of pain and then met Lestrade's eyes. 'My…skin was …crawling I couldn't not do something….' He whimpered slightly, bowing his head. 'Sorry, I'm sorry…' he whispered so that Lestrade could barely hear.

'Sherlock, it's fine,' Lestrade said quietly and then shook his head. 'You need a hospital.'

Sherlock shook his head slowly and then more furiously, tearing streaming for his eyes. 'No,' he said pathetically. "Mycroft will find out…'

'I'm just gonna take you in so they can stop you from bleeding out and look at your hand, okay? I won't let them test your blood or anything, if that worthless brother of you sees anything, it'll look like you were hurt on a case, alright?'

It was a little bit before Sherlock nodded. 'No ambulance.' 

'Okay,' Lestrade said, waiting patiently as Sherlock stood slowly. He was still clearly trying to stop himself from crying. 'Sherlock...should...should I be worried about you trying again?' And again his voice felt way too calm, everything about him did. It wasn't right, any of it.

There was a quiet chuckle, far too dark for Lestrade's liking. 'What, killing myself? No Lestrade.' And Lestrade met the young man's eyes and suddenly Sherlock looked so frightened Lestrade felt he was staring at a boy rather than the young man he knew. 'I don't know what would happen if I did,' Sherlock finished in a small voice.

Sherlock was released fairly quickly from the ER and Lestrade drove back to his flat, making Sherlock wait in the car while Lestrade got some of Sherlock's own clothes. Then he drove them back to his house.

'You can stay with me for a while, at least until we're both sure you're safe again, okay?' Sherlock didn't have to tell Lestrade that he didn't trust himself-he could read it in the young man's eyes. Sherlock nodded. 'It's gonna be alright.'

He stayed in the room that Sherlock slept in that night, sitting in the chair and watching the young man, listening to the steady breaths and hating everything that was happening. He knew that Sherlock could get past this, he only wished that it didn't have to be so bad for the destructive young man.

 

The next day, Lestrade woke Sherlock around noon.

'I need to go. There's been a murder-I'll be back by six, alright?'

Sherlock nodded, looking away from Lestrade. 'I.. about all this ... I'm...'

Lestrade shook his head. 'It's fine. Just stay safe while I'm gone, okay? I don't know what I'd do if I found you dead.'

'Cry, probably,' Sherlock smirked weakly. 'And then phone my brother and scream at him.'

'Right.' Lestrade sighed. 'There's food in the fridge if you want any. I'll be back later.'

 

 

'Where's the freak?' Sally asked when Lestrade got to the scene. 'He'd be all over this.'

Lestrade glared at her slightly. 'He's not well right now. I don't know when he'll be back here yet.'

Sally frowned. 'Must be really sick-this is is favourite, he'd never miss a chance to show us up for anything.'

'Yeah...' Lestrade nodded. 'Yeah he's really sick...'


	5. Chapter 5

It was three days later that Sherlock told Lestrade that he wanted to come with the inspector to the crime scene.

In a way, Lestrade had been relieved; Sherlock hadn't been himself in the past three days. He oddly enough missed the man and his constant comments. But Lestrade also didn't want a repeat of a few days ago-if it had been something at the crime scene that had upset Sherlock. Lestrade reassured himself with the fact that the case they had now didn't remotely echo any part of the other one.

Sherlock was a jumble of sarcastic comments to Sally and rapid-fire deductions to Lestrade until between the three of them--mostly due to Sherlock, they figured out the murderer. 

Quickly after, Lestrade was following Sherlock outside and behind the building, worrying and Sherlock collapsed against the back wall and lit a cigarette, his hands trembling too badly for him to be okay.

'Don't know if I could ever quit these,' Lestrade commented, leaning his back against the wall next to Sherlock and lighting his own cigarette, trying to calm himself down enough to try to talk to Sherlock before the young man could do anything stupid. 'Suppose I'm gonna have to soon though. Interferes with alot of things-not being able to smoke indoors.'

He saw Sherlock tilt his head back from beside him and lowed the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling smoke.

'I want to use,' Sherlock said matter-of-factly. 'It's always been just a stupid habit to take my mind off things-I can promise you, inspector, I've never been addicted. I wasn't thinking clearly 3 nights ago and things got out of hand.' He sighed angrily. 'And that's put the need for more in my head. If I'd died--'

He didn't get to finish his sentence as Lestrade's fist collided with Sherlock's mouth.

'Don't you bloody dare,' Lestrade said. 'Don't you bloody dare use, don't you dare talk about you dying as the better option. I'm not dealing with that, Sherlock.' He sucked in a heavy breath. 'You want to come to crime scenes? Make sure you can do it without wanting to kill yourself. Or without wanting to do drugs for whatever reason. But I can't let you keep doing this.'

Sherlock swallowed and met Lestrade's eyes and for a moment, Lestrade feared he'd made a mistake and was terrified that soon he'd find Sherlock's body for real. But then Sherlock's gaze hardened and he crushed the cigarette under his heal.

'Give me two weeks,' Sherlock said firmly.' Two weeks, and then you let me back on your crime scenes. But don't go looking for me-I'll figure this out on my own.'

Lestrade was tempted to say no; he didn't want to trust Sherlock to deal with this on his own-he didn't even want to leave Sherlock alone for fear of not finding him alive again. But he knew he had to trust Sherlock, or things would either get worse or never changed. And he was too attached to the younger man to watch him die.

'Fine.' Lestrade followed Sherlock around to the front of the building and watched him walk off, hoping this wouldn't be the last time he'd see him.

Sherlock kept his word and was back in two weeks, no visible signs of needing cocaine, or being high, or anything else Lestrade would deem dangerous and have cause to forcibly drag him away from the crime.

He was aware that he was constantly watching Sherlock no, worrying, and that it was stupid, because he knew that he trusted him, but he also was concerned and worried.

'I'm fine,' Sherlock muttered to him as he bent over the body with Lestrade, his clever eyes darting across it.

An hour later they stood on the street, both smoking. 

'Really though, I am doing well.' Sherlock at least looked healthier. 

'What are you doing for distractions then?' Lestrade asked. 

Sherlock blew out a plume of smoke. 'Anything else provided it won't upset you. ' He looked at Lestrade. 'Back to the Chemistry experiments, mostly. And I met someone who works at Bart's who is willing to help me out if I ever need anything.'

'You know I can write you permission to see bodies in the morgue-'

'No,' Sherlock's mouth quirked up at the corners. 'Not what I meant.'

Lestrade didn't think he wanted to ask.

 

It wasn't long after that, or so it felt to Lestrade, that he'd ran in a building Sherlock had gone into on his own, having heard a gunshot and feeling his heart stop as a result.

If Sherlock had been shot Lestrade didn't know what he'd do.

But as he burst into the room, he found Sherlock standing over the body of the criminal, trembling all over. Lestrade felt his entire body relax with relief, and began slowly walking over to Sherlock with his hand outstretched.

'I-I...' Sherlock swallowed heavily, looking lost. 'He came at me and it-the gun-it went off when I grabbed it from him...'

'It's alright,' Lestrade said firmly. 'It's okay.' He put one hand bracingly on Sherlock's upper arm and gently took the gun away from him with the other. 'You're in shock.'

'I'm not in shock,' Sherlock snapped, his voice wavering slightly.

Lestrade was only glad that Donovan wasn't with them.

They had another cigarette session a half hour after that, Sherlock's fingers still trembling and giving him away. 

'Suppose he deserved it,' Lestrade offered. 'That's not a bad thing-he did kill two people.'

'And I killed one,' Sherlock said, angrily. 'That doesn't make up for it.'

Lestrade didn't know if he wanted a moral discussion to come out of this; he never assumed that he and Sherlock would have the same morality, but he still thought it odd that Sherlock seemed so uncertain about a murderer's death.

Lestrade didn't always consider Sherlock to be a good man, but he knew the kid had some thoughts in the right place.

 

He knew Sherlock was doing better, he could tell. But he knew that Sherlock was missing something in his life, some kind of support-more than Lestrade or anyone currently in his life could give. Lestrade didn't know if it would ever happen, and he was afraid if nothing changed in Sherlock's life soon, the man might slip up somehow and end up killing himself after all.

He'd seen Sherlock's need for the chase, the need to run in after criminals unarmed, the constant uncaring attitude towards risking his life, and that scared Lestrade more than alot of things.

Sherlock needed something.

 

It was a month later that Sherlock quit smoking. Lestrade didn't outright see the multiple nicotine patches, but he had his guesses.

He quit a while after. 

He hadn't had a case with Sherlock in ages when suddenly he was in a press conference about some apparent suicides he was asked to investigate.

It was then that he talked to Sherlock, wondering if the man was doing any better.

It was the next day that he found Sherlock Holmes at 221b with a man he would later know as John Watson-good man and good friend.

It was that night that he saw Sherlock walking to John Watson after nearly being murdered by the cabbie.

It was then that he finally knew that Sherlock would be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> I really love the relationship between Sherlock and Lestrade in this series and wanted to try to explore it a little bit more.  
> Hope you enjoyed, as always comments and Kudos are really appreciated.  
> Thanks for reading.


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